Gerard slips into the room, closing the door as quietly as he can behind him, and gives his eyes a second to adjust. It’s dark, not necessarily by design, but it is well after sundown and the curtains are tightly closed. The green glow of the luminescent hands of the alarm clock on the nightstand gives texture to some of the shadows around it, but little more than that.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice as low as possible. “How is he?”
“Sleeping. I think.” Melanie’s voice is barely above a whisper. She sits at the side of the bed, both hands wrapped loosely around one of Martin’s. “He’s not fighting things that aren’t—that I can’t see, anyway.”
Gerard comes closer and sits beside Melanie. As usual, he’s struck by the difference between this room and his own, or Melanie’s. Gerard’s room, one of the few spaces in his life he’s always had control over, can be most charitably described as organized chaos, his clothing spilling out of boxes rather than bothering to put it away and the carpet and wall behind and beneath his easel splattered with long-dried paint, all the furniture and woodwork painted or stained as dark as he could get it and a haphazard collection of tapes and CDs littering the area around his stereo. Melanie’s, especially these days, frequently looks like a small localized tornado has swept through, and her walls are so covered with band posters and pictures cut out of magazines and photographs of the three of them that you can’t see the original wallpaper, but the furniture is the same white gilt-edged furniture she inherited from her late mother that she’s used her whole life.
By contrast, Martin’s room is neat as a pin, all his belongings carefully tucked away out of sight, the walls perfectly blank and painted in clean, light colors. The furniture is cheap but serviceable, although the bed is of surprisingly good quality and size (or would be if Gerard didn’t know it used to be Roger and Lily’s), and everything is laid out very precisely and logically. There’s no decoration, no personalization, no expression of individuality.
Gerard knows that at least part of that is because Martin always had trouble focusing on his homework as a kid if there was literally anything to distract him, but damn, he’s a grown adult with a job now. Surely he can let himself have something. On the other hand, part of it is also that he’s ever so slightly paranoid about losing things the second they’re out of his line of sight and thus minimizes the clutter and places for things to hide as much as possible, and Gerard isn’t sure how to alleviate that. Especially not since there’s a good reason for him to fear it.
He reaches out and gently lays the back of his hand against Martin’s forehead. “Jesus. He’s still burning up.”
“Maybe we should take him back to the A&E.” Melanie’s voice wavers uncertainly. “That doctor said he’d be fine with a bit of rest, but…it’s been three days.”
Gerard worries at his lower lip for a moment. He’s never going to forgive himself for this.
He’s been touring the continent for the last few months, mostly in the south, trying to get away from…everything. Chasing he doesn’t know what. Freedom? Change? He never planned to be gone forever, just long enough for things to settle a bit. His thought was to take a year, learn a few things, and then come home in time for Martin’s birthday in August. It was when he’d called to find out if Melanie had got the Christmas present he’d posted from Athens that he changed his plans.
It’s been an unusually cold, wet winter, and while Martin never complains, and wouldn’t have said a word even if either of them had been in town, Gerard likes to think he would have at least bought his brother a decent pair of boots. Instead he’s been walking around in shoes that aren’t waterproof with the soles nearly worn through, without a warm enough coat, and the car finally gave up the ghost three weeks before Gerard left the country. No wonder he’s sick now.
Bronchitis. Not as bad as it could be, but bad enough, and Martin let it go untreated too long, according to Melanie. Unsurprising, since he’s been alone for the last few weeks, between Gerard being thousands of miles away on holiday and Melanie trying to get that ghost-hunting show off the ground, and also because it’s Martin, who will run himself into the ground to take care of the people around him but would rather chew off his own arms than admit he needs it too.
Gerard is just thankful Melanie made it home from her filming a couple days before Martin collapsed while trying to re-shelf some books. And that he called her when he did instead of a few days earlier, because if he’d moved on to another country, she wouldn’t have been able to let him know what’s going on.
“They discharged him, though, right?” he asks. “I mean, he was at the A&E and they said he was good to go home?”
“Honestly, I think they were overfull and didn’t consider him a priority,” Melanie grumbles. “But he was awake…sort of…and we got an official discharge with a prescription, but the second I got him home…” She nods at the bed.
Gerard swears softly under his breath. “I’m rubbish at this.”
“Me, too. I thought I could do this because Martin always did it for me—and for Dad and Lily—and I thought I’d learned from watching him, but…” Melanie won’t meet Gerard’s eyes. “Martin never let it get this bad when it was us.”
“We weren’t here.” It’s a weak excuse and Gerard knows it. Even if he’d been in London, the likelihood he would have noticed anything until it was too late is slim to none. Since the incident with that early edition of Stand Still Like the Hummingbird a few years back, he’s become adept at spotting when Martin’s mental health is starting to fray, but hell, Gerard can barely tell when he’s starting to actually get sick with something serious, let alone when Martin “it’s supposed to do that” Blackwood is. Besides, Martin isn’t the sort to give in to illness. Partly it’s the same situation as Gerard and the migraines he’s finally outgrown—that his being sick was never taken seriously growing up, that he was expected to suck it up and deal—but partly it’s that he focuses so hard on taking care of others that he won’t let himself be sick. For him to be like this…
Gerard hears an odd sound, only obvious because of how quiet the room is—a faint rustling, a riffling of cardboard—coming from Melanie’s direction and frowns at her. “Neens? What are you doing?”
Melanie stills, her head still bowed, looking at whatever is in her hands. “I won’t lose him.”
“Melanie.” Gerard’s stomach lurches as he realizes what she’s holding. He reaches over and covers it with his hands. “Do you actually think you can cheat Death?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, yes, you can, but—Melanie, you know you won’t like the consequences.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.” Melanie’s voice is nearly inaudible. “To be trapped by one of Them forever, if it means you and Martin are okay…I’d put up with a lot for that.”
Gerard gently cups Melanie’s chin and turns her head in his direction, forcing her to look at him. “He will never forgive himself if you bind yourself to one of the Fourteen for him. Ever.”
Melanie’s eyes brim with tears, and she pushes his hand away roughly, but she does put the deck of cards in the drawer of the nightstand. “I fucking hate you.”
“So what else is new?”
They sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Martin’s raspy, labored breathing. Finally, Gerard breaks it, just because he can’t stand the sound. “Bets on whether we’ll be able to get him to stay in bed once he wakes up?”
“He’s going to stay in this bed until he’s well if I have to tie him to it and sit on him,” Melanie says fiercely. “If he gets up he’ll just get sick again. I mean it, Gerry, I am not losing him. Not him or you. Not to something like this.”
“It’s not the way I’d want to go out,” Gerard agrees. Not that he thinks he’ll have the luxury of dying of old age, not with the life they lead, but getting taken out by something preventable like a virus just feels anticlimactic and unfair. He’s sure he’ll end up dying at the hands of one of the Fourteen, probably in agony. He just hopes it’s not in front of Melanie or Martin.
Melanie lifts her hand and begins brushing Martin’s hair back from his forehead in soft, rhythmic strokes. After a moment, she begins humming, then singing softly. Gerard recognizes it as the old seamen’s hymn, the one Martin sings sometimes when he feels sad or lonely. When he feels the fog closing in, as he puts it. Gerard joins in as soon as he remembers where the words are going, trying to keep his voice as low as possible.
The tattoos on his joints give a dull, pulsing throb, and Gerard realizes they aren’t just singing for no reason, even if Melanie thought they were when she started. Something is trying to get at them, probably the Lonely, and the song is helping to push it back. Maybe.
Martin’s breath hitches, then evens out. Slowly, almost painfully, his lashes flutter open, and he squints up into the darkness. “Melanie?” he croaks. His eyes widen suddenly, and he tries to lift a hand to her face. “Melanie, your—eyes—”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Melanie says gently. She grabs at something on the bedside table—Gerard is about to reprimand her for going for the cards—then comes back with Martin’s glasses and slides them onto his face before leaning over to kiss his forehead. “There. Better?”
Martin blinks slowly once, twice, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, sounding uncertain and disorientated. “What…time is it?”
“Half-two,” Gerard says with a quick glance at the alarm clock. “In the morning, not in the afternoon.”
“Gerry…?” Martin tries to sit up. Both Melanie and Gerard make noises of concern and try to stop him. “What…are you doing…here?”
“I came back when Melanie told me you were sick.” Gerard concedes the inevitable and gets up to help Martin into a reclining position, leaning against the headboard and propped against his pillows so he can—hopefully—breathe. “What, did you think I’d just say ‘oh, well, that sucks’ and keep traipsing across the continent?”
“I mean…yes?” Martin blinks at him, evidently confused. “I’m not sick?”
“You are,” Melanie says, her voice wavering between exasperation and worry. “The doctor at the A&E said it was bronchitis.”
Martin turns his confusion on Melanie. “When was I at the A&E?”
“Three days ago. You fainted at work and they called an ambulance for you.”
Martin coughs, a wheezing, rattling thing that sends a spike of anxiety up Gerard’s spine, and Melanie hands him a glass of water that she’s evidently had waiting for him. “Okay. Maybe I am sick.” He takes a sip of water, then looks up at Gerard, guilt written all over his face. “I’m sorry you cut your holiday short.”
“I’m not. Traveling alone was starting to get old anyway.” Gerard sits on the edge of Martin’s bed and pats his leg under the blanket. “And since I’m here, I can help Melanie force you to stay in bed until you’re actually over this.”
Martin opens his mouth to protest, but Melanie forestalls him. “Shut up. You’re not putting me through this again. If you try to get up too soon, you’ll just get sick again, and next time it might turn into pneumonia. You are going to stay in this bed until your fever’s been down for at least twenty-four hours without medication and I’m satisfied you’re back to normal.”
Gerard can’t help but smile a little. “Dr. King has spoken.”
“You can shut up, too.”
Martin sighs. “If I went to the A&E from the Institute, I’ll have to have a doctor’s note to go back to work anyway. Good job I’ve got plenty of sick time, I guess.”
“Have you taken a sick day since you started?” Gerard asks.
“No, not really. A personal day here and there, but nothing like this.”
Melanie hesitates. “There was a text a couple days ago—I didn’t recognize the number and it’s not saved in your phone, but whoever it was told you that you had plenty of time built up, and not to come back until you were ‘properly well’ because ‘the Library needs you at your best’. So I think you’ll be okay.”
“That’s…not as comforting as you might think.” Martin lets his head bang gently against the wall and closes his eyes for a moment. “All right. You win. I’ll be good.” He yawns, then breaks off into a coughing fit. “Ugh. I think I’m going back to sleep for a bit. Um, I’ve still only got the sofa, but—“
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not leaving you.” Melanie scoots the chair closer to make her point.
Gerard nods in agreement. “Get some sleep, both of you. I’ll be here.”
It’s a sign of how sick Martin is that he complies immediately, letting his eyes drift shut and his shoulders relax. It’s also a sign of how little sleep Melanie’s had in the last three days that she folds her arms on the side of Martin’s bed, rests her head on them, and falls asleep barely a heartbeat later. Gerard slips out to the living room long enough to grab the knitted throw Martin made when he was twelve, then tosses it over Melanie’s shoulders before settling onto the end of the bed cross-legged to watch them.
He doesn’t regret coming back. Not in the slightest. The trip’s been good for him, but he’s glad to be home, even under the circumstances. And when Martin is better, he’ll be gladder still. For now, he sets himself to keeping an eye on his brother and sister. He doesn’t doubt for a minute that Melanie’s been wearing herself to a thread with fretting, and she needs looking after as much as Martin does, in a way.
That’s his job. He may not be as good at it as Martin—nobody is, really—but he’s still the big brother, and he still feels a need to look after them. He probably always will.
After all, he loves them, and love is worth the work put into it.